


No One Says 'I Love You' (but they love each other just the same)

by BuzzCat



Series: (Belated) Cablanca Week 2020 [2]
Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: Drunken Confessions, F/M, Lazy Mornings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:54:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25135726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BuzzCat/pseuds/BuzzCat
Summary: Benoit and Marta have a couple traditions. When he works a case in the area, he and Marta make a weekend of catching up. In the morning, he makes the eggs and she makes the coffee. One evening, they get a little drunk and each come the realization of a truth. Drunk people admit the funniest things.
Relationships: Benoit Blanc/Marta Cabrera
Series: (Belated) Cablanca Week 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1819165
Comments: 9
Kudos: 74





	No One Says 'I Love You' (but they love each other just the same)

**Author's Note:**

> Day 2 - Confessions

It had become something of a tradition of theirs, in the couple of years since Marta and Benoit had first met. Benoit Blanc was a name becoming known across the country for his impeccable detective work, but whenever he was working in the northeast, Marta would fly him to Boston and they’d celebrate a successful case for the weekend. They cooked together and sometimes talked through meals, other times read quietly in the library. Marta was even teaching him to play Go. It worked well; Marta’s sister was away at college and her mother often travelled to visit family for weeks at a time. Benoit’s visits kept her from getting too lonely in the big mansion. And she enjoyed his visits. When he wasn’t investigating her for murder and when she wasn’t trying to hide a murder she had supposedly committed, they actually got along well. Well enough that when they’d each had a bit much to drink, Marta did not shuffle herself off to bed but instead leaned into it and let herself float along. She was in good hands; she trusted him.

With the windows open and the cool summer air wafting through the living room, where Benoit was sprawled on the couch across from her and laughing at something that was only funny when a little drunk, Marta took another drink and revisited that thought. She trusted him. Not just to be a detective, not just to find the truth, but as a friend. As a person. She trusted him with herself, trusted him enough that she’d relax with him. It felt quite profound an idea to find at the bottom of a bottle.

Benoit, for his part, was drinking scotch and as his laughter died away, he looked at her intently. Marta met his gaze and on a decisive whim, lurched to her feet. She opened her mouth, about to proclaim her very profound thought and shake the world on its axis, only to find the thought was gone. Which was annoying. But Benoit was still looking at her, his eyes doing a sort of slow blink, like a happy cat.

Marta took two steps forward, and half sat half collapsed onto the couch, Benoit moving his feet at the last second to avoid being crushed. Marta looked at him, focusing intently on his frowning face.

“I have something important to tell you.”

He shifted, slowly putting his feet on the ground and moving around until he was only mostly collapsed into the couch, as opposed to entirely sprawled across it.

Marta watched him, some vague hope that stalling might summon back her very important thought, but even by the time he looked at her and said, “And what d’you need to tell me,” the words still were gone.

She frowned, brow furrowing. “It was important. So important. Very much important.”

“Sounds important,” he replied.

Marta nodded, shifting along the couch until she was sitting beside him, able to lean on him. This was nice, why had they never done this before? It felt good, to have his arm fall so nicely around her shoulder and her head nestle so nicely against his neck. He was warm, but not so warm it was stifling to be beside in summer. As his hand started drawing lazy circles on her arm and Marta took his other hand in hers, resting them in his lap, she really tried to remember what she was going to tell him. It had been something weird, something she hadn’t really told people before. But there were so many things that she told Benoit she’d never told someone before, so many things about him that were special, the idea of its novelty did not narrow it down.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. That was also really nice, also new, he should definitely kiss her more often. “While you’re working up to find the important thing, I have something I want to tell you. A bit of a precursor to your very important thing.”

Marta shifted around until she could look into his eyes. God, had they always been that blue? “What do you want to tell me?”

“Well, it’s a secret. So I’m going to tell you, but you can’t tell anyone else.”

“I’m good at secret,” Marta mumbled into his shirt. She was so sleepy, and he was so warm and comfortable. She poked his side. “You should move down on the couch.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I’m gonna fall asleep here, and if we fall asleep sitting up, it’ll hurt our necks. But if we lay down, then your neck won’t hurt.” Sleeping was for beds, but Marta was pretty sure her bed had never been this comfortably. Maybe if Benoit was in it, but then they’d have to move, and that just seemed complicated. At her request, Benoit started to slowly shimmy down the couch, Marta moving with him until she was laying half atop him, half beside him, Benoit’s arm still wrapped around her shoulder and her hand resting on his chest. It was a very deep couch; Marta had always thought it looked comfy enough to sleep on. She snuggled against him. “This is good.”

“’m glad to hear.”

They were quiet a moment, each floating on the permeating haze of alcohol. Marta was almost asleep when that all-important thought drifted across her mind again. “I ‘member the important thing.”

“Yeah?” Benoit sounded half-asleep himself.

“I’m gonna tell you now, and since we’re very very drunk, remind me and I’ll tell you again in the morning.”

“And what is it?”

Marta picked her head up, just enough that she could look up the couch to see Benoit’s drooping eyes, and she said, “I trust you.”

His eyes drifted closed again, and he muttered out, “Good. ‘m a very trustworthy person.”

Marta was going to explain, to tell him that it meant more than that, but before she could, he was asleep and so was she.

The next morning dawned early, far too early for Marta. The windows were open, the curtains pulled back, and her first sight of the morning was blinding sunlight. She groaned and burrowed her face further into the pillow. But the pillow was warm, and not soft. It felt very much like—

Marta opened her eyes, slowly, shielding them from the light as best she could. She was burrowing into someone’s arm. Her back was leaning against the back of a sofa, and her legs were tangled up with someone else’s legs. She thought back, trying to sort through a variety of foggy late-night memories, and came up with Benoit Blanc. She heard another groan, this one reverberating in the chest she still had her ear pressed against, and it appeared he’d had the same rude awakening she had.

“Marta?” His voice was raspy, the result of too much alcohol and too little water.

“I’m here.” Her mouth tasted like cotton. God, she’d never drank that much before. She tried to move her tongue around her mouth; it felt thick and dry. “I’m going to close the blinds and make coffee.”

Every move felt like a step half in the grave, but Marta slowly managed to shuffle to the windows and plunge the room into blessed darkness. She heard a shift on the couch and another groan as Benoit sat up.

“In the future, remind me to not drink this much again,” he said.

Marta chuckled weakly. “Only if you remind me back.”

It was slow progress, but half an hour later, Marta had brewed coffee and Benoit had cooked scrambled eggs. A breakfast of teamwork, he’d called it the first time he’d stayed the weekend, sleeping in one of the spare bedrooms. Really, it was because Marta always burned the eggs and Benoit made the coffee too weak, but it had become another part of their tradition and being hungover wasn’t going to stop either of them.

Marta was halfway through her mug of coffee, still squinting against the curtain-softened sunlight, before she remembered her drunken promise. It was too much to drop on a person this early in the day, but she’d promised. She tapped Benoit’s foot with her own under the table, the same way they always did to pull the other out of deep thoughts.

“Hey.” Benoit looked at her, pulling his gaze from the depths of his milky-and-sweetened coffee. Marta continued, “I told you last night, I don’t know if you remember, but I promised I’d tell you again. The…the super important thing.” She smiled at her own phrasing.

He smiled as well. “I must confess, I remember the conversation but not the big reveal.”

“I figured. I just wanted to tell you, I trust you.” Benoit smiled politely, and Marta could tell he had no idea what she meant. Before he could say anything, she continued, “I mean, I trust you with me. Not as a detective, or not just as a detective. But I trust you…” This was frustrating. Why did these feelings feel so much easier when she was drunk? “I don’t drink that much. Ever.”

“Nor do I.”

“No, I don’t drink that much because…there’s no one I trust enough to drink that much with.” Marta was just as surprised to say those words as Benoit was to hear them, but it was true. She didn’t drink like that with _anyone_. If something happened, if there was an emergency, she was a nurse. She needed to be there, be available to help. She needed to be on guard against everything in case someone needed anything. But with Benoit, she didn’t worry. She didn’t worry about him. “I can drink that much with you, because I trust you to—” _To take care of both of us_. The words froze on her tongue, hardened in her throat. But Benoit heard them just the same. His polite smile dropped, replace by the kind and serious expression Marta had seen only a handful of times. He understood her, despite the fact that words could not express the kind of visceral trust she meant, and Marta could have kissed him for it.

‘Kissed him’.

Nope. Another revelation, another day.

She cleared her throat, looking back at her coffee. “I trust you. Implicitly. And I wanted to tell you. I think it also explains why I was so…tactile.” She had _fallen asleep on top of him._ They’d barely reached the point of familiarity where she hugged him upon arrival and departure. And then she’d had a thought of trusting him, and suddenly she was sleeping on top of him and he was tracing circles on her arm. “I’m sorry, I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable.”

“I can assure you, Marta, uncomfortable is the last thing you make me. And I believe I owe you a confession as well.” He hunched over his coffee a little, defensive posture up. Marta shook her head,

“You don’t have to if you don’t want—”

“No, I’d like to tell you. A secret for a secret.”

Marta steeled herself and waited. Benoit took in a breath and couldn’t meet her eyes. She thought there might be buildup, some kind of grandstanding on how he came to a realization (he was a detective and she’d seen him grandstand with the best of them), but instead Benoit let out a sigh and looked up at her,

“I miss you.”

Marta blinked. “You miss me?”

Benoit nodded, a faint flush creeping into his cheeks. “When I’m working around the country. I miss you. This.” Benoit took a deep breath. “I haven’t missed anyone alive since my momma died. But you. I miss you every day.”

Marta was quiet a moment. No one had ever missed her before. No one had ever been gone long enough to miss her. But as Benoit admitted it, Marta realized she missed him too. When he was gone, she missed him make scrambled eggs and watering down her good coffee with creamer. She missed hearing his voice down the hall when he got a grateful call from a client, missed the showtunes that would filter through the house when he was in the shower. She missed him being here with her. She missed being anywhere with him.

When she spoke, she spoke slowly. “You don’t have to miss me.”

“I have tried to stop, but it appears that matters of the heart are a bit beyond my control.”

Marta shook her head. “No, you don’t have to miss me if I come with you.”

Relief flooded Benoit’s face, even as he prevaricated, “I’d hate to impose on your schedule—”

Marta cut him off, smiling. “It’s not imposing. If it isn’t any trouble, I could come with you on cases. Only if you want me, of course.”

“And if I start to want you with me on all the cases?”

Marta shrugged. “Everything I do I can do over the phone from anywhere in the country.” She was doing charity work to help immigrants and the children of immigrants, as well as working to make Blood Like Wine’s catalogue more diverse than just Harlan’s books, two processes which occasionally required a signature, but that’s what printers were for.

Benoit grinned at her, taking a sip of coffee before officially asking. “Well, how ‘bout it, Watson? You up for a little detective work?”

Marta smiled, something knotted and tight in her chest finally relaxing. “Yes.”

Benoit nodded to her, gratitude and respect both in the gesture. Marta looked back at her eggs, feeling the new world open before her. Not a new world that came from death and shouting, as the inheritance that changed her life, but a world born from early morning questions and late-night confessions.

Benoit tapped her foot beneath the table and Marta looked up. He spoke hesitantly but honestly, giving one last truth to the morning. "I trust you too."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Of the ones I have for (Belated) Cablanca Week 2020, this is one of my favorites. Look for another work in the series tomorrow!


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